


Reenactment

by hyacynthgray



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, love across time and boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacynthgray/pseuds/hyacynthgray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after episode 2.05, "The Weeping Lady" where Ichabod, alone at the cabin, is overwhelmed by grief and shame and someone/something comforts him and maybe comforts herself a bit, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reenactment

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome - this is my first published fanfic. This might be a one-shot, or might not if I'm inspired to write more -not sure at this point.

Reenactment  
By Hyacynthgray

Ichabod lay on his back in his muslin nightshirt (another gift from Miss Caroline) on top of the wool blanket on the bed in Corbin’s cabin. His large hands were folded over his stomach. He was bone-tired and spiritually drained. His anguish over the past few days’ events – further revelations of Katrina’s dishonesty, the depth of evil in Henry’s soul, and the desiccation of Mary’s spectral corpse – was nearly unbearable.

As was his custom, he had lit a candle to illuminate the interior of the rustic room. The soft glow from wax and wick was soothing to him, helping him forget that he was a stranger in a strange time, cut off from his own era. He walked through most of his days with a small, nagging sense of loss inside, but - good soldier that he was - repressed it when fighting the latest hell spawn from Moloch’s stable of horrors. He was also growing more adept at the playful banter with Abbie that distracted him from the ache of immense loneliness. 

Tonight, however, in the absence of Abbie’s fearless companionship or a foul monster to conquer, a tidal swell of grief rose up in his bosom so powerful that he thought he might drown in its cresting sadness. Sharp, spiny thoughts swam close, piercing him with one fresh truth after another. Each realization of Katrina’s mendacity, every apprehension of facts that his beloved had withheld from him caused his chest muscles to seize. His throat tightened as he ticked off the list of her transgressions. He stared up at the ceiling, and it was not until a wet trickle of tears pooled in his ears that he became aware of ragged sobs rising in his throat and fists clenching the bedclothes.

Crane suddenly cried out in rage, and picked up the Bible from the bedside table, flinging it in despair across the bedroom. He started to cry out, “Why have you forsaken me!?” to God and the flickering shadows, but realized that he would feel ashamed of such arrogance. Instead, he mumbled bitterly, “Fool!” directing this insult to himself.

After a time, either minutes or hours (time seemed unpredictable to him these days), he became aware that under the prominent injuries inflicted by Katrina’s sins of omission and Henry’s scathing derision and diabolical retribution, ached another wound to which he not yet had time to attend. 

This was the gaping loss of a very dear and kind friend. Miss Caroline had given him respite from feeling so awkward and out of place in this ridiculous time with her celebration of colonial ways. He had been grateful and charmed by her homemade gifts – jackets and breeches, jams and butters, and even a hand-worked pillow with his initials on it! Her skill as a colonial seamstress was to be much admired, and her attentions to him lessened his loneliness to such a degree that he had all but forgotten it in her company.

So much of the time he knew that others in town must have been smirking at him behind his back; their mocking or derisive stares were not lost on him. But Miss Caroline never, ever mocked him, and her large eyes had always looked at him in admiration. The degree to which he was flattered competed with the shock he felt when he realized that her feelings toward him were of an amorous nature! He had great sympathy for her flustered humiliation when she learned that he was a married man, and certainly would not have derived any joy from her discomfort. Still, especially now in light of doubts cast on the strength of his marital bond with Katrina, he had to admit that Miss Caroline’s expression of affection filled his heart with silly, manly pride that he was still attractive to someone of the fairer sex.

He recalled Abbie’s snort of laughter when she had discovered him in the midst of awkward social intercourse with Miss Caroline, and had told him with a typical, impish grin on her face that he should come up with a signal of some sort - like a tie on the door - implying that he and Miss Caroline were up to immoral mischief! Ichabod was offended that Abbie would have such fun at his expense. But as soon as he allowed that thought, a small wave of shame washed over him, because no one was as loyal to him as the Lieutenant, and certainly none as fierce in protecting his back. 'Crane - your pride will be the death of you yet!' he chided himself.

He knew Miss Mills cared deeply for him, and allowed himself to dwell on the memory of the first time they grasped each other’s hands when he had tried to take his life to end the Horseman’s. He recalled with poignancy how, despite the fact that he towered over her, he ironically felt safest in her small but fierce presence. How clearly he remembered the feel of her tiny frame in his arms when they had embraced after Henry saved him by eating Crane’s sins.

Henry. Crane’s mind and heart were trapped this night in a whirlpool of misery. Henry! Dear God, his boy, his only son -- turned demon lackey to Moloch! Ichabod shuddered – he would not confront that devilish dilemma just now; he would deal with that damage at another time when his courage, sanity and energy were restored. He swallowed his bitterness and took a deep breath, pushing all thoughts of Henry deep into a hidden corner in his mind. To stiffen his spine and snap out of this abyss, he pulled rank on himself, scolding, 'Stop worrying about others’ sins! What of your own failures and blindness, Captain?!'

This military intervention failed. Sadness welled in his breast again as he turned his thoughts back to his red-haired friend. He said in a tearful whisper, “May God bless you, Miss Caroline. I pray you are now in a far better place than this weary plane, and if my friendship was indeed what cost you so dearly, I beg for your eternal forgiveness.”

Finally, able to resist the lure of released pain no longer, Ichabod covered his face with his hands and wept. His shoulders shook, his head bowed under the weight of loss, and he sobbed until the ache in his chest subsided. After a time, he wiped the remains of his tears from his face using the soft fabric of his sleeve, and pulled the blanket over his long limbs. He leaned toward the candle and blew it out. Settling his head back into the comfort of his feather pillow, he turned his face turned toward the window, and gazed out at dark clouds backlit by a hidden moon. He whispered to Caroline’s memory, “I wish you were still here - I miss you terribly,” and closed his eyes.

Just as Ichabod fell asleep, the autumn moon peered out from behind a castle-like cumulus formation, and sent beams brighter than candlelight through the cabin window. If one’s eyes had been acclimated to the dim, wavering light, one might have seen forming between the window and Ichabod’s bedstead the faint, shimmering outline of a slender figure, silvery as moonlight and nearly transparent. The figure’s face was one of innocence, impertinence and sweetness, with large, thoughtful eyes and a white glow on the brow, cheeks and breast. This gentle specter wore a lovely colonial gown that billowed softly in a non-existent breeze, reflecting glints from mirrored threads shot through the fabric. Long locks of hair gleamed with just a hint of pale, dawn-rose color that might have been flaming red had they graced a woman of flesh and bone. The edges of her gown and ends of her hair wafted ‘round her form, fading to nothing at the hem and tips. 

Her eyes alighted on the Bible on the floor, and she knit her brows together in tender disapproval. With a swirl of gown and fluttering of silver fingers, she transported Ichabod’s Bible back to the night table, lowering it gently to rest by the candlestick.

She parted her lips in an anticipatory smile, and turned to hover over the weary soldier, leaning in to peer at his face, which was troubled even in sleep. Emitting a sigh only seraphim could hear, she reached out and held her hand against his cheek. He stirred, raised his brows over closed lids, and moved his face into her palm as though asking, “May I have some more, please?” 

She stayed like that for minutes or millennia (time meant little to her now), ghosting a caress over his face and unruly hair. She glanced over her shoulder out the window at a knowing, lunar countenance, and waited. The moon finally obliged her unspoken wish and slid behind cirrus battlements, hiding its October eyes. She paused, and then placed her luminescent fingertip on his lips, whispering her favorite lines from the first colonial woman poet, Anne Bradstreet: “My love is such that rivers cannot quench Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence."

As she gazed at the lonely, slumbering man, she knelt close beside him on the bed, folding her knees beneath her diaphanous gown and tucking them into the side of his waist beneath his ribs. She reached up and held each of his shoulders in her hands and watched him breathe, feeling his warm exhalations swirl the cold, ambient air away. With her rosy, translucent curls massing on his breastbone, she lowered her head and rested the side of her face against his broad chest ~ something she had so longed to do in life. She was moved to tears by the thrum of his beating heart – with a pulse so strong that she could hear the blood sing as it pushed through his veins. Wriggling a bit, she lowered herself still more, finally resting the upper portion of her weightless frame atop his large, still-breathing ribcage. 

Clinging thusly to him, she rolled back her shoulders, bringing her birdlike scapulae closer together. Moving a cluster of divine lights from her heart to illuminate her spine, she inhaled with a breath that resonated with the delicate harmonies of a cherubic choir. For the first time in her new life, she unfurled a pair of breath-taking iridescent wings that spanned over a dozen feet when fully spread, and gently enfolded Ichabod in a feathered, protective cocoon. In a voice so soft it made no earthly sound, she said, “There is nothing to forgive, sweetie. I am at peace. I am here with you. Rest now.”

In his sleep, Ichabod smiled like a small boy, and his hands opened in a gesture of contented imagination. The moon grinned behind the walls of its cloudy fortress.


End file.
